The Beat Doesn't Go On 1969-1996

Bill Gayes, the pubic mustached savant who famously sued a Pepsi commercial for tampering with his arthritic hips, fizzed out flat for the last time Thursday.  Church members who frequently reported him to law enforcement for stealing purified water from the holy quaff say he went on to glory to avoid child support payments being deducted from his soft drink settlement at the cheap age of 27.

Hair metal heads hiding behind a restraining order that prevented him coming within one mile of any concert aromatically remember him as a potted meat enthusiast who smelled like the fifty eggs that sat inside Cool Hand Luke.  For new wave nuisances suing him for leaving flaming turds on a Kaja GooGoo keyboard, Gayes was a mannequin rapist that should’ve bled to death from all the splinters the cheap plywood models at Marshall Fields permanently embedded in his fingers. 

According to census records Gayes was born at Woodstock on a bed of brown acid tabs, many of which his family recovered.  An only child, his road to nowhere started with homeschooling on recreational substance formation.  Former addicts say he was a marijuana rolling prodigy who could roll perfectly balanced joints by the carton due to kinetic bonding he had with Star Trek.  His popularity outshining automated rolling machines helped keep his family beaming financially into his teens.

As his parents gradually converted to Native Americans, Gayes grew into a restless teenager that sought a stable homelife in a trailer than a tent.  Former police informants say boredom played a key role into his metamorphosis as a natural born snitch in what should have been his high school years.  Wanting a change of scenery, an intentional phone call informing law enforcement of his parents peyote operations led to their arrest and subsequent long term jail sentences while leaving him a juvenile co-conspirator.

Faced with being tried as an adult or a stint in the military Gayes chose the latter, joining the United States Army at age seventeen.  Drill sergeants proclaim disciplined life seem to be quite easy for him, especially his focused attention on his dress.  Lacking the right chromosomes to grow facial hair, Gayes followed all core regulations weaving and gluing his thick pubic mange to his upper lip, a practice he continued to do the remainder of his life. 

Superiors took notice of his attention to detail and had planned on nominating him for Officers’ Candidate School after the war games concluded.  Fortunately, a spirited misunderstanding about his military occupational specialties in language translation not including Klingon or Vulcan provoked Gayes into a physical altercation with his battalion.  Refusing to kick him out, a combination of extra duty, demotion of rank, and loss of all liberty until graduation made him grow resentful of missing out on his life’s passions and brew vengeance.

Psychiatric records indicate a two-dollar showing of An Officer And A Gentlemen triggered his kleptomaniac predisposition selling stolen surplus and other supplies to soldiers.  Military monopoly maniacs recant everything came to a head once he stole the customed sterling silver limited edition tokens from a three star general’s Monopoly game.  After being arrested for selling the goods at a local bar off base, his kleptomaniac behavior subsequently derailed his future in the military and led to a swift dishonorable discharge when he wouldn’t give back the pieces.

Thrown back to the harsh realities of the civilian world with a worse fate than a felon, Gayes drifted from city to city, working odd jobs not even non-English speaking illegals would do.  Police reports filed during arrests of his solicitation of sexual proclivities proclaim most of his employment was limited to temp jobs as a grease trap cleaner, which afforded him the luxury of being paid in spilled food that was slated to be thrown out at the end of the night anyway.

After believing a street walker’s tales of being on the pill, Gayes found himself a father far before he was ready to accept any responsibilities in that department.  His newfound fatherhood sobered him up quickly into changing his identity and embracing a new line of work.  A brief two year stint posing as the lead detective in the Tylenol Killer case warranted little attention and even smaller rewards until a questionable Matlock marathon gave him the con of a lifetime.

News accounts say a cold rainy night in Chicago coupled with Pepsi adverts in neon lighting around the city caused Gayes’ spastic colon to give out, causing instant inflammation in his pelvis.  After a poorly understood diagnosis at the county hospital which spilled into his medical reports, ambulance chasers cornered him upon discharge and a lawsuit of confusion was born.  A five year civil suit against the soft drink manufacturer’s commercials ensued, ending with a freak accident judgement in Gayes’ favor on an insignificant technical error that earned his legal counsel thirty percent of the settlement. 

Nationwide attention of the case afforded his child’s mother, who had been looking for him well over ten years, to have him arrested for delinquent child support.  Gayes denied nothing; he was proud to be a deadbeat father from the spawn of a whore he countersued on the basis of owing him a refund via misrepresentation of services by not swallowing.  A pissed off judge automatically ruled against him; vowing never to pay a dime Gayes ran away to the one place he knew the court couldn’t make him pay.

Bill Gayes got his final swig of the pop in a burning hot rage spiting his former prostitute turned child’s mother to death just for kicks.  After a final visit from his lawyer that put his assets in trust to a sewage rat he befriended as a child, he willed his entire body to stop functioning so he could get on with not having to be bothered with sharing his small fortune.  His death is a stiff reminder that the only time you can have too much fuel is when you’re on fire.